


six feet under

by mikhailoist



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on the Twilight Saga, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Child Abuse, F/F, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Slow Burn, Smoking, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikhailoist/pseuds/mikhailoist
Summary: When Mickey Milkovich is forced to move to the southside of Chicago, his expectations aren't very high. Between dealing with his homophobic father, his broken relationship with his sister, and a loss in the family, he quickly resorts to drowning his pain in cigarette smoke and alcohol.The one person who makes him feel alive again is someone who should very well be dead: Ian Gallagher, a vampire. Ian brings Mickey into his world, which is dark and tainted with blood — and yet, it gives Mickey a sense of belonging. Before he knows it, he's falling in love, and he thinks Ian might love him, too.However, there are many things threatening to keep them apart, and it doesn't take Mickey very long to learn that Ian's world is not meant for a human like himself.
Relationships: Carl Gallagher/Kelly Keefe, Debbie Gallagher/Sandy Milkovich, Fiona Gallagher/Jimmy Lishman, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Lip Gallagher/Tami Tamietti
Comments: 12
Kudos: 28





	1. numb

**Author's Note:**

> **Hello all!**
> 
> **First off, I am _so_ excited to share this story with you. I've been wanting to integrate Gallavich into the Twilight universe for some time now, and it's finally happening.**
> 
> **There are a few things I want to quickly address before you start reading. One: For the sake of this story making sense, I have made some obvious changes to both the Twilight universe as well the Shameless universe. For starters, I have adjusted the ages of pretty much all the characters, especially the Gallaghers. I wanted to keep the Cullen family vibe, where most of them are in high school together, so there isn't as much of an age gap between Carl/Debbie and Ian/Lip/Fiona as there is in the show. Same goes for the Milkoviches. Ian and Mickey are the same age, though Mickey is still a little older by a few months. (Well, technically, vampire Ian is going to be hundreds of years older, but you get the idea.)**
> 
> **Also: Mickey in this story is not going to be exactly like the Mickey we all know from Shameless. I've done my best to keep his character _mostly_ the same; however, in order for some of the storylines I have planned to make sense, I have in fact made a few tweaks. You'll see what I mean when you start reading. Like I said, he's still mostly the same, but his backstory and a few parts of his personality are different for a reason. It'll make sense later on, I promise. This _is_ an alternate universe, after all.**
> 
> **I think that's it for now! I really hope you have as much fun reading this as I've had writing it.**
> 
> **(Dedicated to Deja, my best friend and favorite Ian stan, who helped me brainstorm ideas for this fic and encouraged me to keep writing when it got hard. Love you so much, bestie.)**

The autumn chill in the air is uninviting, the cold nipping at Mickey’s skin. He steps out of his car, his legs sore from hours behind the wheel, and he’s _starving;_ he thinks if he doesn’t get some food in him soon, he’ll probably fuckin’ snap. With the amount of stress already piled on his shoulders, he feels uncomfortably on edge, and the looming threat of where he’s headed doesn’t do much to ease his nerves. He goes to put gas in the car, but another hand reaches the nozzle before he does. He looks up, vaguely annoyed.

Sandy looks just about as bad as he feels — messy hair, dark circles, and a frown that’s been resting on her lips ever since they left home. She’s always tried hard to be the brighter one in the family; Mickey is the epitome of pessimism, and Mandy, currently fast asleep in the back seat of their car, is just about as dysfunctional as they come. Sandy really is the glue that holds the three of them together, so even now, when she’s quite possibly in the worst state of her life, she does what she can to take care of her cousin and his sister.

“I got it,” she says gently. “Go get some air. You look like you need it.”

Mickey doesn’t have to be told twice. He turns on his heel and walks towards the gas station, rubbing his hand roughly over his face as he tries to wake himself up. His teeth are chattering, and the cold is really starting to annoy him now. Like, come on, it’s only _October;_ this frostiness in the air is pretty fuckin’ unnecessary. Though, he supposes being raised in the goddamn sunshine state didn’t really prepare him for this shit. He pulls his jacket sleeves further down his arms to cover his hands, which are trembling now, and he makes a mental note to invest in a fur coat whenever he can.

He glances at the sky, his eyes resting upon the heavy gray clouds gathering just above him. It looks like there could be a rainstorm soon, or snow, or maybe even hail, depending on how much worse his luck can get; they need to be in and out of here as soon as possible. He briefly looks over his shoulder to the car, where Mandy has stirred awake and is now climbing out to stretch her legs.

Mickey continues inside the little convenience store, where he uses the shitty bathroom before grabbing some snacks and a couple of coffees for himself and the girls. He approaches the checkout counter, where a young woman with pink hair and a flashy nose piercing smiles at him sweetly.

“Hey there,” she says.

He just nods and gives her a tight-lipped smile. He can vaguely recognize that this girl might be trying to flirt with him here, but he doesn’t really have the energy to let her know it’s a lost cause. Normally, he would — where he comes from, people don’t give a shit about who you bang, so he’s never really had to hide the fact that he’s gay. Hell, Mandy is the odd one out between him and Sandy, the only straight standing between a gay kid and his lesbian cousin.

So, on any normal day, Mickey would politely correct a girl trying to flirt with him. But today isn’t a normal day. He’s not sure his life will ever be normal again. And the place he’s headed to — well, let’s just say he has a hunch that the people there aren’t exactly gay-friendly. Seeing as their destination isn’t far from this run-down gas station, he doesn’t know how gay-friendly this pink-haired cashier is, either, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Long trip?” the girl asks, picking up on Mickey’s exhaustion from his silence and the way he’s starting to zone out. He blinks a few times, then looks at her, watching as she scans the price tags on the protein bars and bags of chips he grabbed.

“Uh.” His voice is low and a little raspy, and he has to clear his throat. “Yeah. Really long.”

“Where are you headed?”

Mickey gnaws on his lower lip, contemplating the question as he gets out his wallet to pay. He doesn’t want to tell her — not that he cares what some random girl thinks of him, but because saying it out loud to anyone would make it _real._ It would mean that Mickey truly has nowhere else to go, and that he, Mandy, and Sandy are probably fucked for life from here on out.

But he says it anyway, because he’s tired and completely over all this shit and, well, he’s gonna have to come to terms with it eventually.

“Southside,” he replies, as the cashier places his coffees in a disposable drink tray and hands it to him. “Of Chicago.”

“Really?” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Most people are trying to get away from that shithole, not go towards it.”

“Yeah, well.” Mickey shrugs. “Don’t really got a choice in the matter.”

She presses her lips together and narrows her eyes, clearly not buying it. “You know, that’s where I’m from. I’m one of the few people lucky enough to get out, start over. Make something of myself.”

Mickey looks around the convenience store before coolly resting his gaze back on her.

“Nice job with that,” he says sarcastically. 

He doesn’t wait to see her reaction, nor does he care; he just grabs his shit and heads for the exit. Behind him, he can hear her smart mouth muttering to herself, “Bet you’ll fit right in, asshole.”

And there it is, right there. There’s the truth he’s been afraid of admitting to himself. He knows it, too; it may have been years, it may have been longer than he can even remember, but he’s been to the Southside before.

It’s where he was born — and, unfortunately, it’s still in his blood, even now.

—

The southside of Chicago comes into view just an hour later.

The house they’re headed to is on the outskirts of the shittiest fuckin’ neighborhood Mickey’s ever seen. He doesn’t remember it being this bad — then again, he hasn’t been here since he was, what, four? _Maybe_ five? He doesn’t have many memories of this place, and thank fuck, he thinks, as he peers out of the car window and looks around. There are kids running through the streets, and teenagers wearing old, worn hoodies with holes all over them, hanging around on the sidewalks and smoking. Some of them are drinking in broad daylight, and there’s a lot of shouting, and Mickey is witness to a reckless fight that breaks out as he turns a corner; a huge teenage boy is beating a smaller kid half to death as a circle of people forms around them.

“Holy shit,” Sandy mutters.

It’s not like the three of them haven’t seen a fight break out before, or skipped school to drink beers in the middle of the day. Hell, Mickey even smokes — has been since before he started high school. They’ve all had their fun, but this… this is different. It doesn’t look like these kids are having _fun_. It looks like they’re doing all this because it’s the only way they know how to survive.

“Well,” Mandy says, and Mickey watches her in the rearview mirror as she crosses her arms and leans back against the seat. “Welcome to the fuckin’ Southside, I guess.”

From there, it only takes them a few more minutes before they get to the house. Mickey pulls the car up next to the sidewalk and parks, and then he just sits there, taking it all in. 

This side of the neighborhood is just fuckin’ sad, he thinks. There’s homeless people everywhere, and every single house on the street has shit piled up in their front yards. He notices a three-legged dog limping down the sidewalk; further away, a few kids gathered underneath the El, doing a fuckin’ drug deal or some shit, probably. As Mickey moves to grab his keys, a car alarm backfires nearby, causing Mandy to jump out of her seat so high her head nearly hits the roof of the car.

“Shit,” she exclaims.

“Holy fuck,” Sandy mutters. She leans forward to look out of the window, scanning this mess of an area they just spent days on the road to get to. She then leans back and glances over at Mickey. “This place is…” She trails off, not really sure what to say.

“This place is fuckin’ nuts,” Mandy finishes for her. “Seriously, I think we might _actually_ get murdered by that guy over there.”

She presses her finger to the window on her right. Mickey looks; one of the homeless men is standing in the middle of the street about ten feet away from their car, just staring.

Nothing about this place is welcoming. It’s dirty and disgusting and just fuckin’ depressing. Mickey hates that he had to come here. He hates that his life took such a drastic turn and _this_ is where he ended up.

“No wonder Mom left,” is all he says.

A long, uncomfortable silence descends over the car. Mandy slumps her body against the car door, lowers her head; Sandy bites her lip and doesn’t say a word. Mickey probably should’ve kept his mouth shut. He knows that. The subject of _Mom_ is a touchy one — but he knows they were both thinking it, too.

He takes another moment to breathe in through his nose, deeply, slowly, preparing himself for the next step. This neighborhood is nothing compared to what’s inside that house.

Sandy finally speaks up after a while, her voice soft. “You ready?” she asks, placing a hand on Mickey’s upper arm.

Mickey glances at her hand, pulling his lips into a frown. It isn’t fair that his younger cousin is the one always looking out for him, always reminding him that he’s gonna be okay. He’s the oldest one here, the seventeen-year-old kid who’s supposed to look out for his sister and the girl who was practically raised as his sister when everything in their world is falling apart. And yet, even when he thinks he’s keeping it together, Sandy can see right through him.

He nods slowly, finally removing his keys from the ignition. The three of them hesitantly push open the car doors and step outside into the cold. The sky is a little clearer here, not as heavy with clouds, which means the storm must have been moving the other direction; even so, it’s still dreary and gray all around them.

Mickey, Sandy and Mandy unload their bags from the trunk of the car, and then together they cautiously approach the front door. None of them know what to expect, really — Sandy and Mandy were both too young to remember this place when they left, and what little Mickey _does_ remember is all hazy and blurred. Things could be much different now; he has to hold onto hope that they will be.

He pauses, the door large and daunting in front of him, his duffle bag weighing on his shoulder. He looks back at Sandy and Mandy, who have latched onto each other’s hands. Sandy gives Mickey a small nod, so he takes a deep breath and just _does_ it, like ripping off a bandaid. He lifts his fist and knocks on the door.

There’s a few moments after that where time seems to slow down and the whole street gets quiet, like everyone and everything around them is watching, waiting. All Mickey can hear is his heart pounding in his chest, the blood rushing to his ears. His palms are clammy, and he thinks his fingers might be shaking; from the cold or from fear, he can’t really tell. He wills them to stop, wills his body to calm the fuck down, and then the door opens.

They’re greeted unceremoniously by a large man with gray hair and a big, hooked nose. He squints his eyes at them, his eyebrows scrunched up in annoyance, like he’s just been rudely woken up from a nap.

“The fuck is this?” he grumbles.

“Uh.” Mickey shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Hey, Dad.”

The man standing in front of them is Terry Milkovich, and Mickey was four, maybe five years old when he last saw him, but that fear he remembers is still there, lingering inside of him as Terry glares him down. Terry knew the Milkovich kids were coming, the three Mickey’s mom had stolen away from this neighborhood long ago and raised under sunshine and palm trees; he knew things had changed recently and they would be coming back, but he still looks at them for a minute like he doesn’t know who the fuck they are. Mickey figures he must be drunk off his ass, because he can smell it from here — the stink of beer wafting out of this old, dirty house and into his face. It clicks in Terry’s eyes after a moment, the recognition, but it’s not something that makes him happy. Being reunited with two of his kids and his niece after so long doesn’t seem to make him feel anything.

“Didn’t know you’d be here so soon,” Terry says, voice empty of any emotion. Mickey curls his fingers around the strap of his bag, pulling it tighter against his shoulder and clenching every muscle in his body so that he doesn’t start visibly shaking here on his father’s doorstep. Whether this is a shit ton of nerves or just a relentless buildup of anger, Mickey isn’t sure; what he is sure about, though, is that somehow, his body is remembering the things his mind has forgotten about.

His body remembers what life was like with Terry all those years ago.

“Nice to see you too, _Terry,”_ Sandy says from behind Mickey, dragging out her uncle’s name like it makes her sick. Terry narrows his eyes at her.

“Don’t go giving me attitude, girl,” he sneers. He glances between her and Mandy a couple of times, then adds, “Which one of you is mine?”

“Uh.” Mandy awkwardly raises her hand. “Hi, Terry. Erm, Dad, I guess.”

A tension falls on the front porch, and none of them say anything. If the stench of Terry’s breath and the confused look in his eyes is anything to go by, he’ll probably forget which one is his daughter by the next morning, anyways.

“Right,” Terry finally says. He stumbles out of the doorway and back into the house, a silent _welcome home,_ though it doesn’t feel very welcome at all. As the three kids wander inside, Sandy pulling the door shut behind them, Mickey stops to take it all in.

The house looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in _months_ — at least a year, maybe. There’s trash piled in every corner of every room, and paint is peeling off the walls. There’s an assortment of handguns on the coffee table in the living room; upon seeing those, Mickey does a double take. He glances over at Mandy and Sandy, who both look just as appalled as he is.

There’s bottles of alcohol, too; lots of them. Mickey quickly learns to pay close attention to where he’s walking, so he doesn’t step on an empty one and get glass lodged in his foot. The whole house _reeks_ , too, just as bad as Terry did. Mickey drinks, he likes beer and shit, but something about this is completely overwhelming.

It also triggers a memory.

_A small boy, reaching for his mom._

_A young woman, pulling him close to her side, wrapping her arms around him as protectively as she can._

_A man, not far away — in the kitchen, maybe — shouting. Throwing bottles at the wall. Glass shattering, the young woman screaming, and the small boy crying, silently pleading for it to stop._

Mickey blinks. Terry is waiting for them in what should pass as a dining room, even though it’s just a table shoved against the wall. He sits down, and the three kids awkwardly follow suit.

“So…” Sandy leans back in her chair, crossing her arms and pulling her legs up so that her knees are pressed against the table. “Is it just you here, Terry?”

“No,” Terry grunts. “I sent Iggy and Colin out on a job. They should be back in a few hours.”

Sandy raises an eyebrow. “Who…”

“Our brothers,” Mickey says, nodding towards Mandy. “I remember them.”

“Yeah,” says Mandy. “Me too. A little. Mom talked about them sometimes.”

Her voice gets heavy when she talks about their mother, because recent events are still weighing down on each of them, and Mickey notices how Sandy grabs hold of Mandy’s hand again, hidden from Terry underneath the table. Ever emotionless, Terry doesn’t seem to take notice of the sudden mood shift; he just reaches for a nearby bottle and kicks the beer back into his throat.

Mickey knows a little bit about how things went down when Laura Milkovich walked out on Terry. She took Mickey and Mandy, along with Sandy, who the Milkoviches had decided to raise as their own kid when her parents passed away. Colin and Iggy stayed here with Terry — that was the decision they came to. To this day, Mickey doesn’t fully know why _he_ went with the girls as opposed to staying here with his brothers, nor does he know what would have happened to him if he’d grown up here, in the Southside, with his drunken mess of a father. He’s not sure he wants to know.

Terry lets out a loud belch. He finishes the beer he was holding and moves onto another.

“So,” he grunts. “You all in high school?”

“Yeah,” says Sandy. “Mandy and I are juniors. Mickey’s graduating this year.”

“You good at school, Mick?” Terry asks, narrowing his eyes at his son. Mickey shrugs.

“I get by,” he admits.

Truth is, Mickey hasn’t always been the _best_ at school. None of them are, really. It wasn’t something Laura emphasized the importance of very often — a side effect of being born and raised in this place, maybe. There are a few things Mickey is good at — like math, which he secretly really enjoys — but his high school years thus far have consisted of cutting class and partying. He dated around a lot back home and got caught up in a lot of crazy shit with the boys he hung out with, and sitting here now, he can’t help but wonder if that’s what high school in this neighborhood will be like, too — if he really will just fit right in.

Nonetheless, he plans to work as hard as he can this year so he can graduate by May. He’ll be eighteen next summer, and as soon as he can, he’s gonna find a job and an apartment somewhere else, take Sandy and Mandy and get the fuck out of this shithole.

Terry takes a long drink, then fumbles with his bottle a little as he tries to set it down on the table. Another loud, disgusting belch escapes from his throat, and, quickly losing interest in the topic of school and what his son’s plan might be for the upcoming year, he stares pointedly at Sandy and Mandy.

“And how are my girls?” he asks. “School been goin’ well for you? How about love lives? Any assholes back in California you gonna introduce to your old man at some point? Any grandkids in my future?”

“Wow,” Mickey mutters under his breath, low enough so Terry can’t hear. “Getting right to the point.”

“I had a boyfriend, but we broke up since I was moving so far away,” says Mandy.

“And I had a girlfriend, but we ended things for the same reason,” Sandy adds.

For a moment, the little, cramped dining room falls silent. Mickey wonders why Terry suddenly stopped bombarding the girls with useless questions, and then he sees it — his dad’s face contorting into something terrifying and almost inhuman, his nose all scrunched up and his skin getting dangerously red.

He realizes then that, _fuck_ , Sandy should’ve kept her mouth shut. She should’ve just said she had a boyfriend, or not said anything at all, because this isn’t fuckin’ California, and the man sitting across from them isn’t their mother, or anyone else back home who would’ve showered them with endless love and acceptance. This is Terry fuckin’ Milkovich, and Mickey may not know much about him, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he’s probably not a fan of the gays.

“Are you a fuckin’ _dyke?”_ he sneers. He’s now looking at Sandy like the mere sight of her makes him want to throw up all that beer he just downed, and it awakens something inside of Mickey. Something angry.

“Yeah, she fuckin’ likes girls, Terry,” Mickey spits out. “And I like boys. We’re gay. People are gay.”

Terry turns his head, slowly, until he’s looking right at Mickey. His father’s face has twisted with so much fury that it almost looks painful, and there’s a hatred in his gaze that sends a chill right down to Mickey’s bones. But he doesn’t let himself get scared; he doesn’t let himself turn back into that helpless little boy he so distantly remembers. He sits there, and he straightens his back, and he holds Terry’s gaze as evenly as he can.

There’s no going back now.

“You don’t bring that queerbo shit in my house, _ever_ , you hear me?” Terry snaps. “You take it in the ass, you get sent out onto the fuckin’ street. Better yet, I shoot you in the goddamn skull.”

Mickey stands up, kicking his chair back. It falls over and clatters against the floor.

“Go get your fuckin’ gun then, Terry,” he snaps back. “There’s plenty on that table over there.”

“Mick, settle down,” Mandy says feebly. Sandy glances at her, a little annoyed. And Mickey doesn’t want to let his sister’s words bother him — he _really_ doesn’t, because he knows she’s just scared of Terry, and maybe a little bit scared of Mickey right now, too, because of how he gets when he’s mad — but it bothers him that after all these years, she still doesn’t _get_ it. It bothers him like an itch he can’t scratch, and it just makes him angrier.

“Don’t tell me to settle down, Mandy,” he warns. “That’s not your place.”

“At least I got one sensible kid here,” Terry remarks.

“I’m not on _your_ side, Dad,” says Mandy. “I just — can't we all just forget about this? Please? Can’t we just start over?”

“You can,” Mickey says coldly. “I don’t really get to.”

He turns and storms away from the table, through the house, towards the front door. The itch is spreading, and now it feels like a burning sensation underneath his skin, and he just wants to fuckin’ hit something. He wants to punch Terry in his goddamn fuckin’ face, and he wants to get the hell out of this shitty neighborhood, and he wants to go back home.

He wants his mom back.

“I’ll be out on the _street_ if you need me,” he shouts, yanking the door open and walking out into the cold.

He’s halfway down the sidewalk, headed god knows where, when he hears the sound of footsteps hurrying out of the house, moving closer to him. He doesn’t stop walking, not even when he catches Mandy’s pale skin and dark hair out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t have anything to say to you right now,” he snaps. If it was Sandy, maybe he’d stop, maybe he’d let her talk it out with him, because she gets it. They’ve always been closer, shared experiences and all, and the dynamic is just different between them. He loves his sister, _of course_ he does. He loves them both, but Sandy is more than just his cousin. She’s also his sister, honestly — was raised like one, at least — and she’s his best friend. Mandy’s never really taken that extra step to be the kind of friend Mickey needs.

“Mick, stop,” Mandy pleads. She reaches out and grabs onto his wrist. “Please.”

“Why?” He whirls around to face her, breathing heavily. “So I can go back there and listen to Terry threaten to kill me and Sandy for being gay? So I can deal with you sitting on your ass and acting like it’s not a big deal?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, her voice breaking.

“You _always_ mean it like that. You just don’t get it, Mandy, and you never will, and that’s _fine,_ but the least you could do is take my side whenever shit like that goes down. Don’t you get it? Things are already so _fuckin’_ different here. You don’t get to pretend like we’re gonna be one big happy family with that piece of shit, because we’re _not.”_

“Well, I’m not just gonna sit around and be miserable for the next year!” Mandy cries. “We have to try, don’t we? Don’t you think Mom would have wanted us to?”

Mickey’s body goes ice cold. That burning feeling from just a few moments ago, that raw anger, is replaced with something different, something that makes his limbs feel completely numb. He holds Mandy’s gaze with his own, the glare in his eyes fading as his face grows expressionless, and she immediately looks like she wants to take those words back.

“You don’t know shit about what Mom would’ve wanted,” he says softly.

“I do, Mickey,” his sister replies, her voice trembling a little. “I know she probably feels fuckin’ horrible for leaving us alone with Dad as our only option, but I also know she wants us to be happy. That’s all she ever wanted for us. Especially for you, Mickey.”

“She doesn’t want anything,” Mickey says, his voice growing icier by the second. “She doesn’t _feel_ anything. She’s dead, Mandy. She’s buried in the fuckin’ ground, and she’s not coming back.”

“Mickey—” 

Whatever she tries to say next, Mickey doesn’t hear a word of it. There’s blood rushing to his ears now, and his vision’s a little blurry, and his body feels like it’s starting to break down. He turns on his heel, and he runs, and he doesn’t know where the fuck he’s going, doesn’t know if he’ll end up getting mugged or stabbed on the next block, but he doesn’t care right now. He just feels numb, and like he needs to get as far away from his fucked up family as soon as possible.

— 

Mickey’s body starts to calm down after a few minutes, once he has run down a few blocks and put enough distance between him, his new house, and his violently homophobic father. Not that he feels _completely_ safe, though; the vibe in this neighborhood still has him on edge, even if this side of it seems a little more relaxed. He slows his pace and looks around, taking in the sight of some kids kicking around a half-deflated ball, and a blonde-haired cop standing next to his car, having a casual conversation with one of the neighbors. Mickey gets the feeling that this is one of those places where everybody knows everybody, a feeling that gets confirmed pretty quickly when the cop and his friend shoot him an odd look as he walks by. They mutter something to each other, like they’re gossiping about who this new kid in the neighborhood could possibly be. Mickey angles his head towards the ground and keeps walking, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

The day is drawing to a close, and the past several days he spent driving are starting to wear on his muscles. The temperature drops about twenty degrees when the sun begins to set, and Mickey really isn’t dressed for this fuckin’ weather; he desperately needs a coat and scarf or _something_ , but he figures he’d have to resort to stealing to get one that’ll actually keep him warm. Annoyed, he stops walking for a moment and furiously rubs his hands together, then exhales onto his palms, hoping his breath will warm them up. It honestly doesn’t really do shit, so he heaves an exasperated sigh and puts them back in his pockets.

The sun has descended behind the houses on the block, leaving the sky a deep, dark shade of blue. Mickey knows he should probably get back — he doesn’t know what kinda shit goes down in this neighborhood at night — but he also knows he’d choose wandering around these fuckin’ streets over sharing the same roof with Terry any day. And he wonders, briefly, if maybe Mandy was right; maybe Terry can’t help what his views are, Southside blood and all, or whatever the fuck made him the way that he is, and Mickey should just go back and give him a chance, give their family a chance. But when he even considers it, he swears he feels bile rising in the back of his throat. He gets really tense again, and he decides he’d rather stay away from that piece of shit he’s supposed to call a father tonight. At least until Terry’s finally managed to knock himself unconscious.

Speaking of getting knocked unconscious, Mickey himself is starting to feel like he needs a fuckin’ drink. He hasn’t had one in a few days, designated driver and all, and all that shit that’s been dumped on him in just the past hour or so has made him seriously stressed. There’s gotta be a bar around here somewhere, right? He glances around, looking for someone who can maybe point him in the direction of one, and that’s when he sees him.

He doesn’t know why this boy in particular catches his eye. Maybe it’s because he seems so different than all the other people Mickey’s seen in this neighborhood so far, like he’s strangely out of place. He’s sitting on the steps leading up to the front door of a house — _his_ house, probably — and he’s smoking a cigarette, and in the dim light of the fading daytime, Mickey swears he’s looking right at him. He gets this feeling all over his body when they make eye contact. He can’t explain it, but it leaves him feeling breathless.

The boy has pale skin, _really_ pale skin — almost as pale as the moon slowly rising above their heads. His fiery orange hair is a significant contrast to it, and, well, fuck it. He’s pretty fuckin’ attractive. He’s wearing a big coat, but Mickey can still make out the broadness of his shoulders and the thickness of his chest, and even his goddamn _jawline_ is perfect, like he was sculpted from marble. 

Mickey gets so caught up in just _looking_ at this guy that it takes him several seconds to register the fact that he’s not alone on the steps. There’s another boy sitting to his right, this one probably a little older, with a mess of brown curls on the top of his head. He plucks the cigarette out of the redhead’s hand, who doesn’t even seem to notice, his eyes still glued on Mickey.

The boy with the curls takes a drag, and then, while slowly blowing smoke out into the cold air, he calls out to Mickey.

“You new around here?”

Mickey snaps out of it, that strange feeling gradually dissipating when the redhead looks away and takes back the cigarette.

“Uh… yeah,” he replies. “Just moved in today.”

“Well that was pretty fuckin’ stupid,” the boy comments dryly, and Mickey can’t help but roll his eyes.

“Believe me, I know,” he says. “Feelin’ like I need to get fucked up after just an hour of being here. You know any good bars in town?”

“The Alibi. It’s just down this block. The bartender’s a family friend. Tell him you know Lip Gallagher, and I bet he’ll get you a free drink.”

“Well… thanks for that, man.”

Mickey stands there awkwardly for a few seconds, half expecting the redhead to pipe up and introduce himself, but he says nothing. He just sits there, quietly smoking, and it’s almost like he’s purposely _not_ looking at Mickey now. Confused, and quite frankly a little unsettled, Mickey gives Lip a quick nod before turning and continuing down the block, leaving the two strange boys behind him in the dark.

—

There’s not a lot of time to adjust before school approaches that following Monday. After meeting his brothers, Iggy and Colin (who are both genuinely a _lot_ more bearable than their father), he decides to stick with them as he braces the newness of high school life on the Southside. Sandy goes where Mickey goes, per usual, and lucky for them, neither Iggy nor Colin seem to give a shit about the two of them being gay. Mickey isn’t surprised when Iggy lets them know about how Terry told him and Colin everything; he _is_ surprised, however, when all his brothers do is clap their hands over his shoulder and say, “We couldn’t care less about who you bang, man.” It’s a weird way of phrasing the sentiment, sure, but at least it reassures Mickey that not everyone in this town is a piece of fuckin’ homophobic scum.

Meanwhile, Mandy is already starting to go off on her own. She tends to do this a lot, so neither Mickey nor Sandy are very surprised. Even back home, she did this thing where she pretended to not know who her siblings were whenever they were at school together, and instead she would hang off the arm of the first guy she saw. She does the same thing the moment they step through the doors of their shitty new high school. It probably also has something to do with the fight she and Mickey had a couple days ago, and he watches as she approaches a group of guys who probably think they’re tough shit. She flirts with each of them, and walks alongside them until she disappears into the crowd of students.

Colin has a girlfriend of his own to meet up with, so before the first bell rings, Iggy takes Mickey and Sandy on a quick tour of the school. And, well, Mickey sort of wishes he would’ve appreciated his old school a little more, because this place is a fuckin’ dump. There are cracks all over the walls and ceilings, shattered light fixtures in the classrooms, boarded up windows, and a stash of drugs in nearly every opened locker he sees. The funny thing is, the teachers patrolling the hallway don’t even seem to notice. That, or they just don’t give a shit. He notices a couple of them hanging outside their classrooms, having a cigarette each and blowing smoke into the faces of passing students.

People must get away with a lot of shit around here, and Mickey isn’t complaining, but at the same time, there’s obviously something off about this place. There’s a vibe in the school halls that just doesn’t sit right with him; same vibe he got back at Terry’s house.

“Smoke?” Iggy asks suddenly, holding a pack of Menthols out to his brother and cousin. “We got, like, five minutes before first period.”

Mickey glances at Sandy, who’s raising an eyebrow at him. The two of them smoke pretty regularly, but Mickey thinks they just never expected it to be this accepted in the hallways of a high school.

“Fuck it,” says Mickey, and he takes the pack from his brother.

If he’s gonna be going here for the next year, he may as well fit in, right?

Soon, Mickey’s first class rolls around: math, which is the only thing he has hopes of getting an A in. When the teacher passes out their first worksheets, Mickey quickly realizes that this is all shit he learned a long fuckin’ time ago. Either this school is _way_ behind on the normal curriculum, or they’re just giving out a shitty ass education, because if all his work is gonna be this easy, then he thinks senior year will be a breeze.

The next few classes are a little more difficult, but that’s mostly because the teachers don’t seem to give a fuck about their job. It annoys him slightly, but when Mickey realizes he has history with Sandy, they notice a bunch of their classmates sneaking out right past their teacher, who is definitely high as fuck on something. The two of them decide to follow the crowd, because, fuck it, they’re not gonna learn anything if they stay. They end up spending that period outside by the benches and the bike rack, and they watch as kids show up with weed and canned beers that they must have been keeping in their lockers.

At his past schools, Mickey pulled this kind of shit all the time, but it was usually with a small group of friends or whatever asshole he was dating at the time, and they almost always got caught. Here, it’s something everyone does, and it looks like it’s pretty fuckin’ normal, too. Mickey knows that’s probably not a good thing, but if he can have a bit of fun for eight hours before going back home to his prick of a father, well, fuck it.

He drinks two canned beers and smokes a few from the pack he took from Iggy, and he just covers up all that pain and anger that’s just _sitting_ inside him. He’d rather stay numb forever then let himself anger about Terry or sadness about his mom’s death, and from the looks of it, he can have fun getting shitfaced while doing just that.

He thinks, maybe, he can get through this fuckin’ year. He thinks it’ll be okay, and it’ll feel normal enough.

And then lunch happens.

Mickey is sitting with Sandy and his brothers, chewing on a slice of crappy pizza, when he sees them. They walk into the cafeteria in a group, and each of them have this presence that makes everyone in the room turn their heads to look at them. They all approach the same table together on the far side of the cafeteria, under one of the many broken light fixtures, so they’re half-concealed by the shadows, but Mickey can still see them. He _knows_ it’s them.

It’s the boy he spoke to his first night here, the one with the curly hair, _Lip_ — and the redhead.

There are others with them today, too. Sitting next to Lip with her hand curled around his bicep is a pretty girl with abnormally straight blonde hair. She uses her other hand to toss a few locks of her hair back over her shoulder, and then she makes a face at Lip when he says something to her, before rolling her eyes and laughing.

There’s a girl with red hair, and she looks a little younger than Lip and his girl, like they’re seniors and she’s maybe a sophomore. She’s wearing a flannel, and after she sits down, she pulls up one leg onto her chair and leans back, her eyes boredly scanning the other students milling about the cafeteria.

“There’s no way that girl is straight,” Sandy whispers to Mickey. He glances at her, and notices that she, too, is staring at this group of people with interest. Something about them is oddly captivating.

“Really?” Mickey asks, a bit amused. “Her?”

Sandy shrugs and pops a handful of potato chips into her mouth.

There’s another guy who looks about the same age as the redheaded girl, and he looks like he has a girlfriend, too. They’re the last two to sit down, and once they’re all there, they start quietly talking amongst each other, strangely separated from the rest of the school. Mickey notices that none of them are eating anything.

“Who are they?” Sandy asks Iggy and Colin, gesturing towards them. After the group’s grand entrance, most other people seem to have lost interest, but Sandy still seems curious. Mickey can’t blame her — he’s curious about them, too.

Though, he’s mostly curious about the ginger boy, who is the one most hidden by the shadows draped over their table. He’s looking down, and Mickey, for some reason, is silently hoping he’ll look up, that he’ll spot him from across the cafeteria and remember him and Mickey will feel whatever it was he felt that night they first saw each other.

“Those are the Gallaghers,” says Colin. “They moved here a couple years ago. They sorta run this town.”

“Well, Kelly and Tami aren’t Gallagers. They’re dating two of the brothers, but they _live_ with them, so I guess it’s pretty serious,” Iggy says conspiratorially.

“Which ones are Kelly and Tami?” asks Sandy.

“Tami is the blonde, the one who’s with Lip,” says Iggy. “And Kelly’s with Carl. They’re the youngest ones. Freshmen this year.”

“Who’s the girl with the red hair?” Sandy then asks, pointedly ignoring the knowing look that Mickey gives her.

“Debbie,” says Colin. “From what I hear, though, she’s a little crazy. Don’t know if that’s something you wanna get involved in.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s my kind of gal.” Sandy grins. “So she _is_ gay, right?”

“As far as I know,” Colin says.

“What about the other guy?” Mickey asks quietly. “The redhead.”

“That’s Ian,” says Iggy. “Pretty mysterious fellow. No one knows much about him.”

“Dreamy though, isn’t he, Mick?” Sandy teases. Mickey rolls his eyes, annoyed that she saw right through him that easily. He picks up his second slice of pizza and hopes that it’s big enough to hide the blush creeping onto his cheeks.

Iggy and Colin lose interest in the Gallagher topic pretty soon after that, but for the remainder of the lunch period, Mickey can’t seem to take his eyes off the redhead. _Ian._ There’s something about him, the paleness of his skin, the way he holds himself, that strange look in his eyes.

Mickey just wishes he would look at him again.

—

The last class of the day is English. Fuckin’ American literature. English has always been Mickey’s worst subject; he used to pay people to write his essays for him back at his old school. He’s dreading it, but it’s his final period, so he just needs to drag himself through it, and then he can take Sandy to the Alibi or some shit and they can get some drinks to celebrate finishing their first day of school.

When he enters the classroom, every seat is pretty much taken, and the teacher stops him as he steps through the door. He’s dressed a lot nicer than the other teachers Mickey has had so far, and he’s wearing these thick-rimmed glasses, and Mickey can already tell he actually takes his job seriously. Well, great. The _one_ class he’s expected to put effort into.

The bell rings as soon as the door shuts behind him. The teacher glances down at his roster, then looks up and gives Mickey a small smile.

“Just in the nick of time,” he says. “Mikhailo Milkovich, is it?”

“Mickey’s fine.”

“Well, Mickey, there’s one spot left for you, over there in the back. Why don’t you have a seat, and we can get started.”

Mickey nods and heads towards the back of the classroom, almost stopping dead in his tracks when he sees who he’ll be sitting next to.

He looks up at him this time. He looks at Mickey with those green eyes that ignite something inside of Mickey he can’t even explain, and that feeling rushes all over his body, taking away the numbness and bringing his limbs back to life.

_Ian._


	2. valley of ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning for child abuse, referenced domestic abuse, and strong homophobic and lesbophobic language in this chapter. Nothing worse than what you’ve seen in the show, but still very sad. Be careful. I love you all.**

Mickey isn’t sure what he expects when he takes his seat next to Ian, but he knows it definitely isn’t for Ian to scoot his chair five inches to the left and pointedly look away from him. 

The teacher begins his lecture almost immediately, but Mickey is distracted the entire time, his eyes flitting back and forth between the whiteboard at the front of the room and the pale redhead sitting next to him. Being this close to him, it’s almost intoxicating, but it’s also confusing as fuck. Ian keeps shifting around uncomfortably, and at one point he cups his hand over his nose and mouth, like something about being next to Mickey is making it hard for him to breathe. Feeling annoyed, and quite frankly a little offended, Mickey presses his nose to the area just above his armpit, wondering if he fuckin’ stinks or something. Why else would this kid be acting so goddamn dramatic? But he doesn’t, he smells just fine. He looks over at Ian again and catches him staring right at him.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” Mickey mutters. 

He doesn’t mean to be an asshole — it just comes out — but honestly, what else was he supposed to say? Ian quickly turns away, focusing his gaze as hard as he can on whatever the fuck their teacher is saying. He does this for the next thirty minutes, as class painfully drags on, and Mickey tries to do the same, but god, now he can’t stop wondering: What the fuck is this guy’s problem? Why is he acting so strange?

And why is Mickey so _drawn_ to him, despite that?

When the bell rings, Ian could not get out of there fast enough. He never pulled out books and paper or any class materials at all, so while everyone else is packing their things, he simply swings his bag over his shoulder, rises to his feet, and hurries out of the classroom. He leaves so quickly that Mickey barely has time to blink before he’s gone.

The whole situation leaves him feeling completely bewildered. As he goes to find Sandy, he can’t stop thinking about what the hell just happened, or why Ian was acting like that, or why it seems like Ian can hardly stand to be around Mickey. It just doesn’t make any sense.

The two of them just met — though, they haven’t even _really_ met, considering they haven’t said one word to each other. But each moment they’ve shared together, however strange, has just left Mickey wanting to know more.

—

Mickey thinks about taking Sandy to the Alibi for some drinks after school — anything to avoid going back home to Terry. However, he can’t find Mandy anywhere, and there’s this big brother switch that flips on when he thinks about what might happen if Mandy ends up at home with their father alone. She might be the only one on Terry’s good side right now, but he’s also a drunken bastard who’s violently threatened the lives of two of his kids already, so the fear surfacing under Mickey’s skin is something he can’t ignore. He’s still pissed at Mandy, there’s no denying that, but her safety still is more important to him than anything, _especially_ after everything that’s happened — you know, with Mom — so he decides to save the bar for later.

“We goin’ home?” Sandy asks, slipping her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. Mickey looks over at her and nods.

“Yeah,” he replies, dragging out the word like it puts a bad taste in his mouth. “Let’s go home.”

If Mandy is already there, and nothing bad has gone down with her and Terry, then maybe they can all go out for drinks together. Maybe Mickey will just fuckin’ apologize, and they can all move on and start fresh here, because that’s what he needs. He can’t have this goddamn wall between him and his sister right now, not when everything else around them is going to shit.

He and Sandy walk back to the house together, which isn’t far from the school, seeing as everything in this shitty town isn’t more than a few blocks apart. Even so, the trek feels like it takes longer than it actually should, which might be because of the group of senior assholes that have been not-so-inconspicuously following them ever since they started walking. Mickey glances over his shoulder at them; they’ve got their eyes on Sandy more than him, and they keep whispering things to each other and doing this weird thing with their tongues that just makes him go red with anger.

“Ignore them,” Sandy says to him gently, obviously very aware of what’s going on. “They’re just idiots. They’re not gonna do anything.”

But Mickey doesn’t want to take a chance on that. The leader of the group, the biggest of all the guys, has an obvious hunger in his eyes that makes Mickey feel sick to his stomach. He wonders if it would even matter to this douchebag if he knew Sandy was a lesbian — if he would still try to get his hands on her anyways. 

In a place like this, Mickey wouldn’t put it past these sick bastards to be good at getting what they want.

He grabs Sandy’s hand and pulls her around a street corner, his feet dramatically picking up the pace. Sandy doesn’t say a word. She just follows him, matching his speed as best she can, and eventually, they’re able to lose those guys, leaving them in the dust about a block or so behind them. Mickey draws back his hand, and he stands still for a few seconds, placing his palms over his knees and bending over so he can catch his breath.

“Look who’s out of shape,” Sandy teases, but she sounds grateful.

Mickey stands up and flips her off. She laughs, and he bites back a smile, and for a few moments, he’s feeling better. It doesn’t matter that they’re two kids, vulnerable and alone, in this piece of shit neighborhood. It just matters that they’re here with each other, and that’s always been enough to lighten Mickey’s mood.

And then, only minutes later, they find their way back home — to their _new_ home — and it all comes rushing back to Mickey. Terry Milkovich and his assortment of handguns and the stink of alcohol that’s constantly on his breath, and the tension that just seems to linger around the house, and the twitch of fear Mickey can’t ignore, no matter how hard he tries.

“Do you think Mandy came home already?” Sandy asks him while they’re standing outside the front door, neither one of them making the first move to go in.

Mickey inhales, deeply, and he clenches and unclenches his fists, and he exhales.

“Only one way to find out,” he says.

He pushes open the door, which is always left unlocked, and slips quietly into the house. It’s completely dark, the only source of light a stream of mid-afternoon sunshine peeking in through the kitchen window. It doesn’t take long for Mickey to notice Terry passed out on the couch, his face smushed against the cushions, a half-empty beer bottle still dangling loosely from his fingers.

Sandy shuts the door as softly as she can, careful not to wake Terry. He stirs a little, mumbles a few incoherent words, but he thankfully stays asleep. Mickey breathes a quiet sigh of relief. He and Sandy then move further into the kitchen so they can speak to each other without waking the beast.

“Guess Mandy’s not here,” Mickey whispers. He’s not sure whether to feel relieved or stressed about the fact. He’s definitely relieved that Terry wasn’t able to hurt Mandy or some shit while he was away, but at the same time, where is she if not here? He hopes to god she didn’t get involved with the wrong crowd and go off to hang with them like she has a habit of doing. Especially not in this fuckin’ place.

“I can get started on dinner,” Sandy decides.

“Good luck with that. I looked for food yesterday. All Terry’s got is some shitty microwave meals and milk that’s been expired for like a fuckin’ week.”

Sandy gives an annoyed sigh. “Fuckin’ lazy ass,” she mutters. “Guess I’ll go pick up a few things. You wanna come with?”

She’s glancing between Mickey and her sleeping uncle, obviously aware that Mickey would rather be anywhere else but here. It’s different for him, for some reason; even though Terry hates Sandy for being gay just as much as he hates Mickey for it, Mickey seems to make him about ten times angrier. Maybe it’s because Sandy is just his niece, and Mickey is his son — his son who was also old enough to remember the shit that drove Laura Milkovich away all those years ago — and so there’s an obvious tension there that isn’t there between Terry and either of the other kids. He knows that tension is going to rise drastically the moment Terry wakes up, and the guns on the coffee table doesn’t make Mickey feel any better about being alone here with him. So for a second, he thinks, yeah, let’s go grocery shopping with Sandy.

But then he remembers that he’d been looking for Mandy, and if she isn’t here, then she’s gotta be somewhere in the neighborhood. He just wants to make things right with her. Maybe he’s never been the best at talking, and maybe his apology will be fuckin’ shitty, but he misses his sister. He misses her, and he’s worried about her, and right now, he feels like protecting his family is the only thing he knows how to do right.

“You go ahead,” says Mickey. “I should probably go look for Mandy.”

Sandy nods. “Might wanna grab another jacket if you’re gonna be out looking for a while,” she suggests. “It’s supposed to drop, like, thirty degrees tonight.”

She gives her uncle one last wary glance, before smiling reassuringly at Mickey and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder in that way she always does. Then she grabs her wallet and heads out, and he watches her go.

And then, just like that, Mickey is all alone in the house with Terry. His father doesn’t look like he’ll be waking up any time soon, but that doesn’t mean Mickey feels any less afraid. He inhales again, exhales, desperately tries to steady his breathing as he tiptoes around the couch and makes his way towards his room to grab an extra jacket. He reaches the door, pushes it open, and—

Mandy is _there._ She’s there, in his room, and she’s not alone. She’s laying on the bed in nothing but her bra and underwear, and there’s this guy on top of her — a big black guy, one of the dudes she went off with this morning, Mickey thinks — and they’re both moving around quietly enough, probably aware of the unconscious asshole in the next room, but he’s still being a little too rough with her, and Mickey feels that anger rising inside of him again.

“The fuck is going on here?” he exclaims, and he knows he’s probably a little too loud, probably loud enough to wake up Terry, but he can’t stop it from coming out. The big guy — who is butt fuckin’ naked, by the way — glances at Mickey with a shocked expression on his face. He curses under his breath and hurriedly climbs off of Mandy.

“Mickey—” Mandy stutters. “I didn’t— I thought— I thought you’d be going to the bar or something—”

“In _my_ room?” Mickey yells, because he doesn’t know what the fuck else he’s supposed to say in this situation. His sister is half-naked, and there’s a guy with his dick swinging around right in front of him. Mickey turns to the side and pointedly looks at the ceiling, willing himself to be anywhere but here.

“Who is this?” the asshole asks in a low, gruff voice.

“That’s just my brother,” Mandy tells him, before directing her attention back to Mickey. “Look, Mick, we were just hanging out, and one thing led to another. We came here, and we weren’t really paying attention, and—”

“I don’t need the fuckin’ details!” Mickey snaps, glaring back at her. She’s pulled a t-shirt on over her head, and the guy, thank fuck, is getting dressed as quickly as he can. 

“You know how worried I was about you?” he continues, voice wavering ever so slightly. “We know nothing about this goddamn place, and Sandy and I were thinkin’ something could’ve happened to you, because you didn’t just _stay_ with us at school, and here you are, fuckin’ this piece of shit in _my room_ —”

“Okay, he’s not a piece of shit,” Mandy snaps back. “His name is Kenyatta, and we’re _friends_. He showed me around today, and we had a lot of fun, okay? Just because you’re scared to adapt doesn’t mean I have to be!”

“I’m not scared, Mandy! I’m just being cautious! After everything that’s happened, can you fuckin’ blame me?”

“Uh.” Kenyatta slowly approaches the door. “I’m gonna go. I’ll see you later, Mandy.”

But Mickey doesn’t move out of his way. He stands in the entrance, glaring up at Kenyatta as coldly as he can manage. He’s smaller than him, _much_ smaller, and maybe Kenyatta could kick his ass if he really wanted to, but Mickey knows how to put up a fight, too. Especially when some prick makes himself at home with his family and thinks he can just do whatever the fuck he wants.

“You stay away from here,” Mickey says threateningly, and there’s not an ounce of fear in his voice. “And you don’t put your hands on my sister ever again. You hear me?”

Kenyatta doesn’t say a word. He just stares Mickey down, almost like he’s challenging him, until Mickey finally steps out of the way and he leaves. Mandy doesn’t speak again until they hear the sound of the front door slamming shut.

“You are _way_ too overprotective,” she comments dryly. “He wasn’t doing _anything_. We were just messing around. What, am I not allowed to mess around with guys I find attractive anymore?”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Mickey says, his voice softening. “You just… you have to be careful, Mandy. This place isn’t like back home. The people here are assholes, okay? They don’t care about anyone but themselves.”

“I guess it takes one to know one,” Mandy spits out.

He knows she’s just angry, and she’s saying things without really thinking first, but that still stings. Mickey just looks at her, his entire body going still.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asks quietly.

“It means that ever since Mom died, you’ve been acting like a fuckin’ parent to me and Sandy, and I’m sick of it,” she says. “I don’t need another parent. I just want my brother back.”

“Well, excuse me for giving a shit,” Mickey replies, quickly getting angry again at the mention of their mother.

“Give all the shits you want!” Mandy throws her hands in the air, exasperated. “But before you come barging into my life trying to fix all my problems, maybe you should focus on fixing yours, first.”

With that, she storms out of the room, bumping her arm roughly against Mickey’s as she walks past him. He just stays where he is, almost like he’s unable to move, his eyes glaring a hole in the ground as he listens to Mandy’s retreating footsteps. He hears the front door slam shut, _again_ , and then the house is finally quiet, just him and his sleeping father in the next room.

He draws a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut. His whole body’s getting tense, so he tries to steady his breathing again. _Inhale. Exhale._ He’s been having to do this shit way too much over the past few days. Can’t be fuckin’ healthy.

After a minute, he drops his hand back down by his side and opens his eyes. When he turns around, Terry is standing in the doorway.

“You the one makin’ all that noise?” he grumbles. “Ruined my nap.”

“Whatever.” Mickey turns his back on him, starts hurriedly searching for a jacket, because that’s what he came in here to do in the first place anyway. He finds one that he had thrown across the foot of his bed, and he pulls it on over the jacket he’s already wearing, hoping to God that Terry’s too fuckin’ drunk to notice the way his hands are trembling as he does so.

“You’re always makin’ a fuss over everything, like a goddamn drama queen,” Terry says. “Guess I shouldn’t expect much else from a fuckin’ queer.”

Mickey bristles. He stays where he is, stone cold and silent, back still turned to his father.

“Y’know, you were always like that when you were younger, too,” he continues. “Threw the biggest fuckin’ tantrums, more than any kid I’ve ever seen in my life. Your mom wasn’t gonna take you with her. Only did ‘cause I fuckin’ begged her too.”

Mickey spins around, anger coursing through his veins.

“You liar,” he growls.

“Yeah?” Terry smirks. “Why, what’d she tell you?”

“That you were a fuckin’ pig, and you made her life a living hell,” Mickey snaps. “She said that I — _we,_ me, Mandy, Sandy — we were the only things that ever made sense to her in all the miserable years she spent here.”

He approaches Terry, slowly, and yeah, he’s scared out of his fuckin’ mind right now, because his dad is _scary_. But he’s also angry, because he knows his mom loved him, and he can’t handle being fuckin’ lied to. His heart is racing, and his skin feels like it’s on fire, and he moves closer and closer to Terry until the stink of alcohol on his father’s breath is only inches away.

“She never told us everything, of course,” says Mickey. “You know, probably PTSD or some shit. But she didn’t have to. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what you did to her.”

“You better watch it, boy,” Terry warns, the smirk falling from his face.

“I remember some of it,” he continues. “I didn’t at first. Must’ve blocked it out. But the longer I’m here, the more I remember.”

He holds his father’s glare, silently challenging him to think of a comeback for that one. He won’t be able to, because it’s the _truth_ — Terry was a horrible father and an even worse husband, and he got a little too drunk sometimes and did some things that maybe he regrets, maybe he doesn’t. Either way, it drove Laura away, and Mickey doesn’t even know if Laura was the love of Terry’s life or if he couldn’t care less about the fact that she’s gone now, but he does know that accusing him of domestic abuse definitely strikes a nerve. Terry falls silent, and he starts to turn away, and Mickey thinks he might have won. Maybe he’ll be able to win most of these battles after all.

Then, out of nowhere, Terry throws a punch right at his son’s face.

It sends him flying backwards until his body crashes against the floor. It was only one punch, but _god_ , Terry hits fuckin’ hard, and when Mickey lifts a hand to the side of his face, he can already feel the wetness of blood forming on his skin. 

Terry storms over to him and crouches down so that they’re eye-level with each other, and Mickey, thinking he’s going to punch him again, freezes up and turns his head to the side. But the impact never comes. After a few seconds, he looks back at his father, who’s breathing heavily and shaking with anger and just _glaring_ right into him.

“ _You,”_ he seethes. “You don’t know a fuckin’ thing.”

Mickey doesn’t answer. He stills every muscle in his body, trying to make himself as small as possible.

“You don’t go around tellin’ people that shit. You hear me? You’re just gonna make things worse for yourself.”

He gets up then, turns to leave. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Mickey says.

Terry slowly turns back around, resting his glare back on his son. Mickey knows he looks fuckin’ pathetic right now, all shaking and bloody, like a weak dog kicked to the curb, but he’s still got some pride left. He’s got some strength, too. Now matter how scared he is of this man, he’s still Mickey fuckin’ Milkovich, and Laura raised him, and Laura wouldn’t want him to just lay down and give up.

“Stupid boy,” says Terry. “You will be.”

That’s it. That’s all he says, and then he just leaves, and Mickey is left alone on the floor of his bedroom. His entire body is trembling, and there’s blood trickling down his face now, dripping off his chin. He looks at the tiny, dark red circle that forms in the carpet by his thigh.

Then there’s something else dripping down his face. It’s on both sides, and it gets in his mouth mixed with the blood — a salty, unpleasant taste. He doesn’t really understand what’s happening at first, until he brings a quivering hand to his eye and realizes that he’s crying.

And as soon as he realizes it, he just cries harder.

He curls into a fetal position on the floor, and he cries, and he bleeds, and he misses his mom.

—

Ian doesn’t show up to school the next day.

He doesn’t come the day after that, either.

Or the day after that.

Mickey sits at the back of his English class every day, completely ignoring whatever crap the teacher is spewing at him while he stares at the empty seat to his left. The last time he saw Ian, the kid acted totally fuckin’ weird, and the whole situation was definitely uncomfortable — and yet, at the same time, it gave Mickey something to look forward to. Isn’t that strange? He looked forward to being around this pale, redheaded motherfucker who covered his nose whenever Mickey got too close and purposely avoided looking him in the eyes.

Mickey doesn’t even know how to explain it. He just knows that, ever since he first saw Ian sitting on those steps outside his house, he felt some sort of change happen inside of him. Most of the time, he still feels angry, or depressed, or _numb_ — but whenever Ian’s around, there’s this spark, like the beginnings of some other emotion. He can’t figure out what that emotion is yet. He just knows he wants to feel it again.

How is he supposed to feel it again, though, when Ian is nowhere to be found?

It isn’t just Ian who went MIA, either. Over the course of the next week, it’s like the entire Gallagher family disappeared off the face of the earth. Lip, Tami, Kelly, Carl. They’re all just… _gone_. Even Debbie, which is something Mickey has to listen to Sandy complain about over the next several days.

“I had this whole plan to go over to her during lunch and talk to her,” she says. “I was gonna see if she wanted to cut class during sixth period so we could go somewhere and smoke together.”

“Yeah,” Mickey replies absentmindedly. They’re sitting in the cafeteria, at their usual spot with Iggy and Colin, and he keeps looking over at the empty Gallagher table, hoping Ian will just magically appear if he stares at it long enough. He’s not really paying attention to his cousin and her girl troubles, if he’s being honest.

“The weather’s _so_ nice, too,” Sandy groans, sliding down in her chair and dramatically folding her arms over her chest. “Probably the last sunny day we’ll have in _months_. It would’ve been perfect.”

She’s right. Mickey glances over at the only window in this shitty, prison cell-like cafeteria, half of which has been boarded up to cover a hole where someone smashed the glass. He doesn’t even want to know the story behind that one. Still, he can see the rays of sunlight shining brightly through what _is_ left of the glass, and it illuminates the place a little more than it has since the day he got here.

He can only imagine what Ian would look like, standing under the sunlight with that white-ass skin of his. He can’t help but think the asshole would be even more handsome than he already is.

“I wonder where they are,” Mickey says thoughtfully, resting his chin against his palm. He can feel Sandy staring at him — very knowingly, he might add — while his eyes stay lingering on that empty table.

He gets his question answered after school that day, at the Alibi.

He and Sandy go together, the weight of the first week of school finally weighing on them. He’s itching to get his hands on a beer — of course, he feels like he needs a drink for reasons other than just school. When Mickey and Sandy make the plans halfway through the school day, his cousin shoots Mandy a text inviting her to come with them, and receives no response. Later, after the final bell, when Mickey is walking out of his English class on his way to meet Sandy outside, he spots Mandy in the hallway. She’s with Kenyatta and his friends, hanging out with them by the lockers just a few feet away. She’s got her arm curled around Kenyatta’s bicep, and her whole body is pressed up against his. Mickey doesn’t talk to her. They haven’t spoken at all, really, not since that incident in his room a week ago. They exchange words when they need to at home, but there’s definitely a wall between the two siblings, one that just keeps getting bigger and bigger. So Mickey just stands there for a moment on the other end of the hallway, looking at his sister. He’s still pissed as fuck, but he’s worried, too. He just can’t find it within himself to trust these guys she’s hanging out with. Mandy has always been pretty shitty about picking boyfriends. It isn’t anything new. And right now, when he sees the way Kenyatta looks at her, like she’s about to be his next fuckin’ meal… It makes Mickey want to knock him right upside the head.

Mandy glances up for a second, catches Mickey looking. He quickly lowers his head and walks away.

He finds Sandy just outside where a handful of school busses are starting to pull in, for the kids who live too far to walk (or who literally _can’t_ walk home, because the area they live in is just that fucked.) She’s already got a cigarette lighted, and she hands the box of Menthols to Mickey when she spots him. They walk to the Alibi together, which ironically isn’t far from the high school, smoking and telling each other stories about their day.

When they arrive at the bar, they find the place mostly empty, which Mickey is beginning to think is the usual thing around here. He’s only been to the Alibi a couple of times since moving to the neighborhood, and usually doesn’t stay very long when he’s alone, given that he’s a bit socially awkward and would much rather share a drink with his cousin than these old, drunken regulars. They step through the entrance, and only a few people turn their heads to look at them, before returning their attention to their drinks or the football game on the TV, clearly more interested in that than a couple of underage drinkers.

That might be one of the very few plus sides to this shithole of a town — the fact that none of the bars or stores in the neighborhood try to card you when you want to buy alcohol. They literally couldn’t give a single fuck about it. Mickey spent so much time bothering with fake IDs and shit back in California, but the first time he sat down in the Alibi and asked for a drink, the bartender didn’t even spare him a second glance.

Mickey and Sandy sit down at the bar counter together, and the bartender walks over to greet them, flipping a wash towel over his shoulder. He’s got this long, greasy black hair, and has this stupid grin on his face half the time, like he’s somehow able to find the humor in everything around him. Mickey doesn’t know what could possibly be so amusing about a sad fuckin’ place like this one.

“You again,” the bartender greets cheerfully, his eyes sparkling with recognition when they fall on Mickey. “I was wondering when you’d stop by again. Mikey, was it?”

“Mickey,” he corrects. Sandy stifles a giggle next to him.

“ _Mickey,_ that’s right,” he says, snapping his fingers. “My bad, dude. And who’s this? Friend of yours?”

“Sandy. I’m his cousin,” she says.

“Well, nice to meet you, Sandy. I’m Kevin. You can just call me Kev.”

Sandy smirks a little, clearly entertained by this dude’s sweet, almost childlike personality. “Alrighty then, Kev.”

“So what can I getcha?” Kev asks, pulling out some drink glasses from behind the counter.

“Uh, just a beer for me,” says Mickey.

“Same,” Sandy adds.

“Comin’ right up.” Kev expertly fills up two mugs with beer and slides them across the counter to his customers. Mickey brings his mug to his lips and downs about half of it in the first go. It’s pretty crappy beer, honestly, but he can feel the alcohol starting to work its magic after a few moments and that’s all he needs. He’ll deal with the taste of cheap beer if it’ll help take some of this stress off his shoulders.

“So,” Kev says conversationally, after a couple minutes of slightly awkward silence. “How you kids likin’ the Southside?”

“That a trick question?” Sandy asks. Kev laughs at that.

“That bad, huh?” He takes Mickey’s already empty glass, fills it up, and hands it back to him without Mickey even having to say a word. “Why’d the two of you move here? Your cousin didn’t say much about it when I asked him the last time he was here.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s none of your fuckin’ business,” Mickey mutters. He intends to sound like an asshole, because this guy is getting on his nerves for some reason, but Kev doesn’t even seem the slightest bit phased by his attitude. He just gives Mickey this look, like he’s mildly intrigued by him.

“Ignore him. He’s just a little grouchy sometimes,” Sandy says. She pauses, then adds, “Well. All the time, actually.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, though the tone of his insult is a lot lighter when directed towards her. She smiles at him and playfully punches his shoulder.

“Anyways,” she says, turning her attention back to Kev. “We didn’t have much of a choice. We, uh… well, our mom died, so we had to leave California and come here to live with our dad. Mick’s only seventeen, so we have to tough it out here until he’s old enough to get his own place. After that, hell, I don’t know. He can apply to be me and his sister’s legal guardian or some shit, and if that doesn’t work out, he’ll probably just let us crash at whatever apartment he manages to get. I don’t think our fuckhead of a father would really notice or give a shit either way.”

Mickey sits there, not really looking at her or at anyone while she fills the bartender in on their situation. In most cases, it would bother him for random people to know his whole fuckin’ life story, but this is Sandy. He trusts her, and if she thinks Kev is someone they can trust with their story, then fuck, maybe he’ll figure out how to trust him, too. It’s not like she’s giving him all the gritty details or anything. And anyways, Mickey gets the feeling that word spreads fast in this neighborhood, so people are bound to find out about the Milkoviches and their little situation sooner or later.

“Sorry about that, man,” Kev says. He refills Sandy’s drink, then asks, “Who’s your dad?” And that’s it. He doesn’t give them a shit ton of pity about their dead mom like most people usually would. Mickey appreciates that, actually. He doesn’t like being pitied. It makes him feel weak, and that’s kind of the opposite of what he needs right now.

“Terry Milkovich,” he answers in a low voice.

“Fuck, I know that guy,” Kev exclaims. “I heard he’s in the business of selling guns or some shit.”

“That’s the one,” says Sandy.

“Well, if you ever want an excuse to get away from that, I could offer you a job. My wife and I just had twins, so we’re looking for someone to watch them while we’re both working. I could pay you! It wouldn’t be much, but, hey.”

“You’re asking two complete strangers to look after your newborn kids?” Mickey asks, raising an eyebrow. Kev lets out a loud laugh.

“You’re two teenagers from California,” he says. “I’d probably trust you to look after my kids quicker than I would Tommy over there.”

“Fuck you, Kevin,” says some guy sitting at the end of the bar. He glances over at them for a few seconds, like he’s considering joining their conversation, but then he just shrugs and turns his attention back to the game.

“Anyway,” Kev says, rolling his eyes. “I do kinda need some help, though. I tried asking the Gallaghers to help out, because my wife is friends with the oldest sibling, Fiona, but they’re all pretty busy with their own shit. But I get it, you know. No big deal.”

“Wait.” Mickey sets down his beer, the glass hitting loudly against the counter. “You know the Gallaghers?”

“Yeah,” Kev says, then pauses and looks at Mickey. “Wait. How do _you_ know the Gallaghers?”

“We don’t, really,” Sandy jumps in. “I think Mickey talked to one of them, Lip, like, once. We’ve seen them around school, but that’s about it.”

“Well, we _used_ to see them around school,” says Mickey. “It’s like they just randomly disappeared or some shit like, a week ago.”

“Yeah.” Kev nods, like this isn’t any surprise to him. “Whenever the weather’s this nice, Fiona takes the family on these little trips outside the city. Lucky bastards. I wish I had that kind of money.”

“If they’re so loaded, why are they living in this shithole?” Sandy asks. “No offense.”

“None taken,” says Kev. “And honestly? I don’t really know. The Gallaghers moved here just a couple of years ago, and we hang out sometimes, but I still don’t know that much about them. I know Fiona’s married to this doctor guy, and that’s how they can afford to go on trips and make room in the house for Lip and Carl’s girlfriends and all this shit. They all really keep to themselves, though. I’ve never actually been inside their place. Fiona will come over to my place every once in a while, and we’ve been like, bowling and shit with the kids before, but, yeah. They’re pretty mysterious folks, if you ask me.”

And then, after all that, he glances at Mickey, nods at his empty beer mug, and asks, “You want another one, or you good?”

Mickey, dumbfounded, just looks at Sandy. She’s already staring right back at him. Even though they don’t say a word, Mickey can tell she’s thinking the same exact thing as him.

The Gallaghers just keep on getting more interesting, and since Mickey and Sandy have got nothing else to do in this shitty neighborhood, they’re gonna get to the bottom of the mystery of this fuckin’ family.

—

That following Monday is when Mickey sees Ian again.

He’d gotten used to not seeing him over the past week, so when he walks into the English classroom at the end of the day and spots the redhead sitting in his seat at the back of the room, he has to do a double take. He stops abruptly in the middle of the room and just sort of stares at him. Ian hasn’t even noticed him yet; he’s got his head lowered while he flips through the pages of some book, which he seems pretty absorbed in. Mickey stands there, breathless, as all those feelings from before come rushing back.

“Mickey,” the teacher barks at him from the front of the classroom. “Hurry up and take your seat so we can get started, please.”

A few of the students snicker. Mickey rolls his eyes and flips off the teacher when he turns around, before taking a deep breath and walking towards his seat. Ian has looked up and seen him now, obviously. His green eyes linger on Mickey the entire time it takes for him to pull out a pencil, toss his backpack carelessly on the floor, and sit in the chair. 

“So, what?” Mickey says. “You back to starin’ at me like some weirdo?”

Once again, he doesn’t really mean for that to come out as rudely as it does. He’s just confused, and nervous as hell. He doesn’t fuckin’ know how to handle this pretty boy staring at him like this, like he’s carefully memorizing each and every one of his features.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Ian replies quietly. And, _fuck._ That’s the first time Mickey’s heard him talk. His voice is sweet, youthful. Almost boyish, in a way. Mickey doesn’t really know what he expected, but hearing his voice just makes him feel even more weird and fuzzy on the inside.

“I’m sorry for the way I acted the other day,” the redhead continues. “I was hoping I could properly introduce myself. I’m Ian.”

Mickey looks at him then — _really_ looks at him, despite the nerves that are rapid firing through his body. Ian’s eyes are this warm, comforting shade of green, and they make him look honest and kind, like he really is this nice guy who’s genuinely sorry for acting so weird towards Mickey when they met. Still, there’s something off about him. Something mysterious. Mickey can’t shake the feeling that he’s _different,_ like there’s this strange magnetic pull between the two boys that just keeps pulling Mickey closer and closer. He decides, then, that he’s gonna make it his mission today to find out more about this Ian character, because that seems a hell of a lot more interesting than whatever bullshit their teacher has started spewing at them.

“Mickey,” he finally says. “Name’s Mickey.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mickey.” Ian gives him a small smile. Mickey fights back a smirk, opting to instead just grunt in response. He nods at the book still sitting open in Ian’s hands.

“Whatcha readin’?” he asks, not because he gives a shit about books, but because he’s genuinely curious about what this guy is interested in. He has no idea what to expect from him, and that excites him.

“Well, it’s technically for class,” Ian says. He flips the cover around so that Mickey can see the title: _The Great Gatsby._ He thinks he’s heard of that before, maybe. “I’m pretty sure our teacher has a class set of books for us, but I’ve had my own copy for like, forever.”

“That your favorite book?” Mickey asks.

“One of them. I don’t know, I have a lot of favorites. The old classics are my favorites. I re-read them all the time, especially this one.”

“Well, guess I’m lucky to have you as a partner for this class, then,” Mickey comments. “I don’t know shit about reading.”

This gets a laugh out of Ian, which feels a little bit like an accomplishment. Mickey can’t help but be infatuated with that sound, with his smile, with the ways his eyes sparkle when he does it.

“I can teach you,” Ian says, and something about that statement unleashes a swarm of butterflies in the pit of Mickey’s stomach.

Fuck this guy, he thinks. Fuck him and his laugh and his books and his stupid green eyes. There’s that feeling again, coursing through Mickey’s body; he was waiting for it to come.

They fall silent after that, listening to the teacher while he explains the _Great Gatsby_ lesson to the class and how they’ll be expected to read the book on their own time and turn in an essay or some shit at the end of the semester. Well, Mickey pretends to listen; really, he just tunes him out and glances over at Ian whenever he’s sure he isn’t looking. And when he looks away, he swears he can feel Ian’s eyes on him, too.

After the teacher is done with his spiel about their semester assignment, he passes out worn, paperback copies of the book, along with a worksheet.

“I want you and your partner to start the first chapter together,” he tells them. “Answer the questions on the worksheet I’ve given you, and turn it in at the end of class.”

“Literally the only teacher in this whole fuckin’ school who actually gives us work to do,” Mickey mutters under his breath. Ian chuckles.

“It’ll be fun,” he teases. He grabs his own copy of the book, which Mickey notices has a different cover than the ones their teacher passed out, and flips to the first page.

“The first question is easy,” Ian says, grabbing his pencil and scribbling something down on the worksheet. “ _Who’s the narrator of the story?_ It’s Nick Carraway.”

“What, it’s not Gatsby?” Mickey scrunches his eyebrows together. “Who the fuck is Gatsby, then?”

“Gatsby comes in later. He’s the subject of the story, but the whole thing is told from Nick’s point of view.”

“Mind if I check?” Mickey’s mostly just fucking with Ian, but the redhead smiles regardless and gestures to the untouched book sitting on the desk in front of him. He picks it up, skims through the first couple of pages, and finds a sentence where the narrator does, in fact, introduce himself as some guy named Nick Carraway.

“So, narrator of the story,” Mickey says, grabbing his own pencil and writing down his answer. “Nick Carraway.”

“Like I said.” He looks up at Ian, who’s smirking playfully at him, and fuck it. Mickey smirks right back.

“So,” Ian says conversationally, after they read the next question together and start flipping through their books. “You’re new to the Southside, right? I’ve never seen you around before.”

“Yeah,” Mickey replies. “I came here with my cousin and my sister after our mom died. It was kinda our only option. It’s whatever, though. Been gettin’ used to it.”

He’s surprised at how easily the words come out. Telling random ass people about his situation is not something he feels comfortable doing, _at all_ , but oddly, Ian doesn’t just feel like a random person. He feels… almost like a friend, even though they just met, and all their encounters before this one have been weird as fuck. But Mickey finds he doesn’t mind telling any of this to Ian. It feels _right_. And after he says it, Ian gives him this look, not like he’s pitying Mickey, but more like he understands. Like he’s been in that same position before.

“This place grows on you,” Ian says. “I mean, yeah, it’s a fuckin’ shithole, but there are good things, too. Reasons worth staying.”

He looks away from Mickey then, does that thing where he avoids his eyes. Mickey tries not to think too much of it. Instead, he moves onto his next question, which has been at the front of his mind ever since he talked to Kev at the Alibi the other day.

“Why do you live here, anyways?” he asks. “I mean, word around the street is that you Gallaghers are better off than the rest of us. Heard you’ve got a doctor in the family or some shit.”

“Jimmy, yeah,” Ian nods. “That’s my sister’s husband.”

“So, what? He’s fuckin’ loaded, but you and your family still choose to stay in this sorry excuse for a neighborhood?”

Ian sets down his book then, turns in his seat, and looks directly at Mickey. He looks at him so closely that Mickey can almost feel his eyes staring right past him and into his soul. It’s a different look than the ones Ian has given him so far. It sends a chill down Mickey’s spine, and quite frankly makes him a little uncomfortable. He shifts in his seat a bit, but evenly meets Ian’s gaze. This is weird, yeah, but it doesn’t make him feel afraid. He doesn’t think Ian’s intent here is to _make_ him feel afraid. As strange as it sounds, he thinks Ian might be trying to tell him something with his eyes, something he can’t, for some reason, say out loud.

“People in this neighborhood act like they know everything about my family,” Ian says. “They don’t. Let’s just leave it at that.”

He breaks the contact and turns his attention back to his book. The tension in the air dissipates, just like that, and Ian snaps right back to his normal, friendly self, talking about the worksheet and pointing out information he finds while reading. Mickey has to sit there for a moment, blink a few times, try to make sense of whatever the fuck that was that just happened.

“Okay, so this next question,” Ian says. “ _What is the name of the place that Tom Buchanan’s mistress lives in?_ I know what they’re talking about here. It’s this shitty part of town, kind of similar to where we live. I’m trying to remember exactly what they called it in the book, though.”

“Oh, I think I saw that earlier,” Mickey says. “It’s called the valley of ashes or some shit.”

“Mind if I check?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. Ian’s already flipping back a few pages to look for the answer. He finds it pretty quickly, and Mickey’s sure as fuck the redhead was just testing him to see if he knew it when he writes the words down on his worksheet.

“Valley of ashes,” says Ian.

“Like I said,” Mickey says, playfully mocking the way Ian said those words earlier. Ian lifts up his middle finger, and Mickey _laughs_ at that, because fuck, everything just comes so easily between the two of them. They banter and make jokes like they’ve been friends for fuckin’ years. Mickey’s never had anything like that before. Not with another boy, at least, let alone a boy he’s super fuckin’ attracted to. Because, yeah, Mickey _is_ attracted to him. That much is obvious. He’s attracted to Ian, to the way he looks and to the way he smiles and to the dark cloud of mystery that surrounds him. He _likes_ him, and for the first time since moving to the Southside, Mickey thinks he might have at least one reason worth staying.

The bell rings a few minutes later, and Ian is able to answer the last couple of questions on their worksheets without a moment’s hesitation. He knows his literature, after all. They turn in their assignments, then grab their backpacks and walk out of the classroom together, falling into step with each other as they make their way through the bustling crowd of students.

“That book actually seems kinda interesting,” Mickey admits.

“See?” Ian looks at him, smiling brightly. “I told you it wasn’t bad. It gets _way_ more exciting, too. Lots of action and romance and shit. You’re gonna like it.”

Mickey opens his mouth to respond, make a snarky comment about how romance grosses him the fuck out, but he stops. When he meets Ian’s eyes, he notices that they’re a completely different color. The warm green from earlier has been replaced with a striking shade of gold.

“Wait, do you wear contacts or somethin’?” he asks. “Your eyes were green and now they’re like, gold or some shit.”

Ian stops walking. A few kids behind them mutter something along the lines of _“Fuckin’ move out of the way”_ and dramatically push their way around the two boys. Mickey ignores them and curiously studies Ian, who suddenly seems incredibly anxious. His eyes are flitting all over the place; he’s looking at the floor, the lockers, the ceiling. Anywhere but at Mickey.

“It’s just the light in here,” he stammers. “You know, it’s just— Uh.” He dips his head, turns around, and walks the other way, leaving Mickey alone in the crowded hallway.

Feeling confused as fuck, Mickey just stands there for a few minutes, trying to understand that boy and all the secrets he’s clearly keeping. He looks up, at the broken light fixture above his head, and knows for a fact that Ian just lied straight to his face. The dim, shitty ass lighting in this hallway had nothing to do with his eyes changing color. Even if it changed the shade of them _little_ , that wouldn’t explain how they went from green to fuckin’ _gold_. That shit doesn’t just happen.

Mickey doesn’t stop thinking about Ian. Not when he finds Sandy and they go to the Alibi together like they’ve made a habit out of doing. Not when they eventually go home and he tries to force himself to get through his homework.

Ian has completely, undoubtedly intoxicated him. The confusing, mysterious Ian Gallagher. He’s so interesting, so strange, and Mickey can’t get him out of his head, no matter how hard he tries.

—

It isn’t long before November arrives and brings with it a bitter cold. It snows nearly every day, which is annoying as fuck, because Mickey still hasn’t managed to get his hands on a proper winter coat. He’s stuck doubling up his hoodies and jackets until he can afford something that’ll actually keep him relatively warm. He doesn’t have much money left from his part-time jobs in California, and what little he _does_ have, he sets aside to pay for groceries and give to Sandy and Mandy whenever they need something. A winter coat can wait.

He should probably get a job soon, but he wouldn’t even know where to start. Every single person in this neighborhood is desperately looking for work; Mickey’s already at the back of the line at every single place he applies to. Kev’s offer to babysit still stands, and he brings it up whenever Mickey’s at the Alibi. Mickey turns it down every time. He’s not really sure why. He tells himself it’s because he’d be shit at working with kids, or because he’ll be able to find something that pays better if he just keeps looking hard enough. Deep down, he knows it’s because he feels weird accepting charity from some bartender he’s only known for about a month. One of the things his mom always taught him was the importance of hard work and being independent. That was a choice she had made that changed the entire course of her life. She _chose_ to become independent from Terry and work hard to start a new life of her own. She never asked for anything or accepted charity from anyone. Thinking about it now, Mickey knows that was probably a part of her Southside blood. No one here accepts charity from anyone; everyone here has to work on their own to survive. It’s difficult and scary as fuck, but it’s one of the things Mickey always admired the most about Laura Milkovich. And if he can in any way keep her memory alive, he knows he’s gotta do it by working hard on his own to make life in this neighborhood better for him, his sister, and his cousin.

Sandy takes notice of how hard Mickey is working. She sees all the shit he does around the house, all the chores he gets done so she and Mandy don’t have to. She acknowledges the way Mickey figures out what times Terry tends to get the drunkest, so he can find an excuse to get them all out of the house during that time. She thanks him a lot, and Mickey usually just tells her it’s no big fuckin’ deal, but it is. Everything about living here is a big fuckin’ deal, and it hasn’t gotten any easier during this past month. Sandy understands that it’s taking a toll on her big cousin. She helps him out all the time, and they get a lot of shit done together. Mickey finds himself hanging out with Sandy the most. They go to school, get drinks, deal with the crap they gotta deal with at home, and repeat. They’ve always been close, but Mickey feels like this change in their lives has definitely brought them even closer.

Mandy, on the other hand, is a completely different story. The move to the Southside has driven Mickey and his sister apart, perhaps further apart than they’ve ever been in their lives. It definitely has something to do with Terry, and how Mandy wants to defend Mickey’s honor but also doesn’t want to get on the abusive asshole’s bad side. Mickey can understand that. It hurts, but he gets it. 

He thinks the rift in their relationship also has a lot to do with Kenyatta. Mandy hangs out with her boyfriend almost every day, and some days she doesn’t even come home. Mickey’s worried as fuck about her, but any time he tries to bring it up, they just get in another yelling match that ends with either one of them slamming the door in each other’s faces. He’s decided to just drop it entirely. Maybe Kenyatta isn’t as bad as Mickey thinks he is. And he really, _really_ thinks that guy is a piece of shit, but to quote his sister, “What the fuck do you know about being in a relationship with someone?” And he can’t really argue with that, honestly.

And then, in the midst of all of that, Mickey has Ian. Ian, who hasn’t gotten any less mysterious, who still has those eyes that change color for some fuckin’ reason, who still talks with Mickey like they’ve known each other their entire lives. Mickey looks forward to English class every single day now, and yeah, it’s because of Ian, but he thinks he might _actually_ be starting to enjoy the book they’re reading. It’s like this dark, tragic love story, and Mickey loves talking about it with Ian, because the redhead gets so excited about it, even though he’s already read it, like, a hundred fuckin’ times.

He thinks about asking Ian out sometimes. He never does, though. Something always stops him. Maybe it’s because there’s still so much he wants to learn about the other boy. He’s still trying to figure Ian out, but that dude is like a puzzle he can’t fuckin’ solve. He’s confusing as hell, and there are still moments where Ian will give him that weird stare, or Mickey will ask a question that sends Ian in a hurry to get away from him. Nothing makes any sense with him, and until it does, Mickey has settled for quietly admiring him and wishing they could sit a little closer during class.

When he eventually confides in Sandy about how he feels about Ian, she reveals that she’s been having a similar experience with Debbie, the other Gallagher sibling. Sandy is a bit more confident than Mickey — okay, a _lot_ more confident — and she’s gone as far as to ask Debbie if she wanted to cut class and smoke together, like she’d planned to since that first week of school. For some reason, Debbie always says no.

“It’s like, I can _tell_ she likes me too, you know?” They’re sitting outside during their history period, the one where the teacher doesn’t do shit and the kids always sneak out with their weed and alcohol. This has become a daily thing ever since that first day; Mickey hasn’t learned a single thing in that class. Not that he minds, though. He takes a drag of his cigarette and holds the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before breathing it out into the icy air. He’s fuckin’ cold as shit, and he’s pretty sure the skin on his hands have just as well frozen over.

“Then why wouldn’t she just agree to go out with you?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Sandy says, bringing her own cigarette to her lips. “I can’t figure her out. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop trying, though.”

Mickey nods. He wonders what that’s like — to just _know_ someone feels the same way about you as you do about them. He thinks, sometimes, maybe Ian has a crush on him. But then again, with Ian, nothing is certain. It’s all too fuckin’ confusing with him.

“How’s it goin’ with the redhead?” Sandy asks, almost like she can read his mind. She probably can, given how much time they’ve been spending together lately.

“Man, I don’t fuckin’ know,” Mickey says. He vaguely notices that a group of guys have congregated a few feet away from them, but he doesn’t think much of it at first. He takes another drag and continues to tell Sandy about Ian.

“I think I like him,” he admits sheepishly. “Maybe. I don’t know. But I haven’t dated any guys since California. And the guys I _did_ date, you know, I never really _liked_ them. I just wanted a good fuck and that’s it. But Ian… I don’t know, I don’t want that with him.”

“You don’t?” Sandy wiggles her eyebrows, and Mickey playfully punches her shoulder.

“Shut up,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Obviously I wouldn’t _mind._ But there’s just somethin’ else about him. I can’t explain it. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this way about anyone before.”

“Aw, you goin’ soft on me, Mick?”

“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up,” Mickey says, and moves like he’s going to grab the empty beer can at his side and throw it at her. Before he can, though, he sees that group of guys again out of the corner of his eye. They’re slowly walking up to him and his cousin. They’re big dudes, and there’s something off about the way they’re looking at Mickey.

“Uh, can we help you?” Sandy asks.

“Yeah,” the leader of the group says. Mickey hasn’t seen this guy in his life — he’s just some random asshole, but he’s standing there like he owns the fuckin’ place. It reminds him of the way Kenyatta looks when he stands next to Mandy, like he owns _her_ , and suddenly Mickey knows just exactly what kind of people these guys are.

“We couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” he continues, as he takes a step closer to Mickey. “Is it true you’re _gay_ , Milkovich?”

He spits out the word _gay_ like an insult, and to him, it probably is.

Yeah. Mickey knows exactly what kind of people these guys are. They’re the kind of people he knew he’d eventually come across when enrolling in a high school school on the southside of Chicago.

They’re people like Terry.

Mickey slowly rises to his feet, calmly meeting this prick’s eyes. He’s taller than Mickey by a _lot,_ but that doesn’t fuckin’ matter. There’s no way Mickey’s gonna let some homophobe make him cower in fear.

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ gay,” he says. “You got a problem with that?”

“You’re takin’ it up the ass from other dudes,” says one of the other guys in the group. “Doesn’t make sense how _you_ wouldn’t have a problem with that.”

Mickey shrugs. “I fuckin’ like it. Don’t see how that’s any of your business, though.”

“It’s my job to know everyone’s business at this school, and word’s been spreadin’ fast about you, Milkovich.”

“Who the fuck even _are_ you?” Sandy asks.

“Name’s Bryan,” he says. “I’m kind of famous around here.”

“Oh, I get it,” Mickey says. “You think you’re hot shit, but I bet you can’t even get most girls to notice you like you want them to. You’re probably so insecure about your own sex life that you gotta shit on other people’s.”

There’s a chorus of _“ooh”s_ after he says that; Mickey notices, then, that the rest of their classmates have gathered around them, along with all the other random kids who decided to skip their own classes, too. There’s a crowd forming, muttering excitedly about how there’s a fight about to start. Mickey’s not an idiot; he knows they’re probably here to see one of the popular jocks beat up the quiet, awkward gay kid. No one has really given him much shit about being gay, but if word really has spread about him — and he wouldn’t be surprised if it had — he knows half the school probably knows and are just silently judging him from afar. It’s fucking annoying. It’s not anything new, though; yes, Mickey’s old schools were always a little more accepting, but he’s still dealt with his fair share of homophobes. That’s not ever gonna change.

Before he brings his focus back to the situation at hand, he notices something. Further away from the crowd of people, across the entire length of the parking lot, smoking on his own, is a boy with ginger hair. Could it be…?

He doesn’t have time to think about it, because Bryan is already on his next round of insults.

“If you think you can just move here and bring all that queer, liberal shit with you, you’ve got another thing coming, buddy,” he says. “It’s just not normal. Guess I could beat it out of you, though. Would probably be doing you a favor.”

“I’m gay too, you know,” Sandy says, stepping forward. “You gonna beat up a girl too?”

“Nah, that’s different,” the boy says. “Lesbians are hot as fuck. Your kind is doing the world a service, if you ask me.”

He obviously means for that to come across a certain way, and Mickey can see how it affects Sandy. She doesn’t back down — not in the slightest — but the comment definitely makes her uncomfortable. And then she gets angry.

“Say that again,” she threatens.

“Sandy, don’t,” Mickey says. “Just step back.”

“I _said_ ,” says Bryan. “Gay men are fuckin’ sick, but lesbians, now _they_ have the right idea. They’re fuckin’ sexy, and I get off to lesbian porn _every single night_ —”

Mickey punches him square in the face. The crowd gasps. The homophobic asshole staggers backwards, cupping a hand over his face. He pulls it away, looks at the blood that dripped off his nose and onto his palm. He narrows his eyes, then lunges at Mickey, and that’s when chaos breaks out. They knock into each other while the crowd chants around them — _fight, fight, fight_ — and all Mickey can think is that he wants to knock this fucker out cold. No one who talks about his cousin like that is gonna get away scratch-free. This Bryan motherfucker can bitch about Mickey being gay all he wants, he’s used to that shit — hears it every fuckin’ day from his own father — but _fuck_ , Sandy deserves better than to hear something like that. It makes him angry and sick to his fuckin’ stomach.

He throws a punch at Bryan, who sidesteps just in time before diving into Mickey’s torso and knocking him onto the ground, using his bigger size to his advantage. Mickey lands roughly on his back, and he doesn’t have any time to move before Bryan punches him in the face.

“A queer who knows how to fight,” he taunts. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that in my life.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey says. He spits at him, which just earns him another fist to the face.

“What’d you say? I didn’t hear you. Say it again. Say it again, you fa—”

He stops. Mickey isn’t sure why at first. His vision’s a little blurry — his eyes are probably already bruising over — and he’s got the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. It takes a second for him to readjust and see that someone appeared and knocked out the homophobic dick with one swift strike to the head. After another second, Mickey sees that it wasn’t just anyone who came to his rescue.

It was Ian.

Ian, who had been all the way across the fuckin’ parking lot just seconds ago.

He’s standing over Bryan’s body, and his eyes are burning with rage. He crouches down and just keeps on throwing punches, even though the dude is clearly unconscious. Bryan’s face gets redder and more mangled each time Ian’s fist comes into contact with it, and a hush has fallen over the crowd now. Mickey can feel their fear from where he lies sprawled out on the ground. He thinks he should be afraid, too, because _fuck,_ Ian has clearly lost it.

But he’s not. He’s not afraid of him. He doesn’t think he ever could be.

He gets up, wincing as he does so, and makes his way over to Ian. He places a hand on Ian’s shoulder, touching him as gently as possible, and Ian just stops. He freezes where he is, his fist still hovering above Bryan’s face.

“Ian,” Mickey says quietly. “Look at me.”

Ian slowly turns his head and looks at Mickey. There’s an uncontrollable anger burning like fire in his eyes, but when he meets Mickey’s gaze, it starts to calm down a little. That old look slowly comes back, that warmth that seems to surface only when he rests his eyes on Mickey.

“We’re cool,” Mickey says, voice soft.

Ian glances back down at the unconscious body beneath him. There’s blood everywhere — on the guy’s face, on his hands. Something shifts then. Ian’s body starts to tremble. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head the other way.

“Ian—” Mickey reaches out to him, but Ian quickly gets to his feet and hurries away. He disappears through the shocked crowd of people before Mickey can even blink.

And just like that, he’s gone. It all happened so fast, you could convince Mickey he was never even there in the first place, if there wasn’t a bloodied, beaten body to show for it.

_Fuckin’ Gallagher,_ he thinks. _What the hell?_


End file.
